Things That Go Vworp in the Night
by 221c
Summary: Sherlock is bored. The Doctor does what he can.


_**Things That Go Vworp in the Night**_

**A/N:** Written for a request on tumblr from sounds-a-bit-dull, who requested I write something with Sherlock and the Doctor going to pick up John for adventures. Hopefully this satisfies the request! Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I am not Steven Moffat.

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><p>"I'm bored."<p>

The Doctor looks up from his examination of the TARDIS console, eyeing the child before him with wide-eyed disbelief. Sherlock stares back with a look of intense indifference, arms crossed over his chest.

"You can't be serious."

"Bored."

"Sherlock, we've got all of time and space to explore. We could go anywhere, any_when_ you wanted. And you're telling me you're-"

"Bored!"

The Doctor resists the urge to bury his face in his hands, instead electing to kneel before the bright-eyed child and try for patience. Sherlock blinks, but his expression does not change as his caregiver forces a smile.

"What would you like to do then?"

Sherlock gives a shrug, mumbling a neutral, "I dunno."

The Doctor runs a hand through his hair. "Right. How do you know you're bored then?"

The look Sherlock gives him at that statement is entirely unimpressed.

"Is there anywhere you want to go? Anything you want to see?"

Another shrug. Sherlock shuffles his feet, drawing himself up in all of his five-year-old glory. He unfolds his arms, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt that's too large for his stick-thin torso.

The Doctor pauses for a moment, then his face brightens and he gives a small smile. "I think I know exactly what to do."

Sherlock watches as the Time Lord jumps to his feet and dashes back to the console, pressing buttons and turning dials and typing coordinates and pulling levers. Then the TARDIS lurches and Sherlock stumbles, reaching out for the railing.

"Aha!" the Doctor crows triumphantly as they land with another jolt and a grinding of breaks. He grins madly, ushering Sherlock towards the door.

"Where are we?" Sherlock questions as he's propelled forward, glancing back over his shoulder to where the Doctor is all but bouncing along a few steps behind.

"You'll see."

Sherlock huffs quietly and pulls the door open, peering out into a darkened room beyond. Confusion passes over his features and he purses his lips silently as he regards the rumpled bed, the frankly alarming wallpaper depicting an assortment of cartoonish animals, the piles of toys and books and clothes scattered about the floor.

"Doctor?" Sherlock whispers, brow furrowing as he tilts his head back towards the Time Lord.

The Doctor says nothing, simply pushing him forwards into the room. The window above the bed frames a crescent moon hanging in the dark blue beyond. For a terrifying moment, Sherlock thinks that the Doctor is going to leave him – a punishment for being bored, for complaining, for sneaking into the TARDIS in the first place. The room does seem fit for an average child, even if Sherlock is anything but average.

Except the Doctor's not like that. That thought is reinforced by a small sniffle from the direction of the bed, and Sherlock realizes that the room is already occupied.

And he thinks he's beginning to understand why the Doctor brought him here.

Slowly, quietly, Sherlock crosses the room. Careful not to step on any of the toys littering the ground, he makes it to the bed and lets his eyes fall on the small, quivering lump near the bottom corner against the wall, covered by a thick blanket. The lump sniffles again.

The Doctor remains standing next to the TARDIS as Sherlock climbs nimbly into the bed, crawling towards the mass of blanket. He stops, sits back on his haunches, considers thoughtfully.

Then, slowly, he reaches out and pokes the lump.

It squeaks, attempts to become smaller. The quivering turns into subtle shaking. Sherlock pokes it again, this time offering up a small, whispered, "Hello?"

A moment passes where nothing happens. Then the blanket is peeled back inch by inch to reveal a shock of short blond hair and wide, dark blue eyes that counter Sherlock's own brilliantly.

"'lo?" the other boy whispers back, looking up at Sherlock fearfully. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says with a small grin. "You're John."

The blankets are pulled back further. "How'd you know that?"

"It's written on a drawing you left on the floor. But the handwriting is messy, so it couldn't have been an adult. So it's your name, in your handwriting."

"I don't write messy!" the other boy protests, completely disentangling himself from the blanket in favor of sitting up to face Sherlock, fears all but forgotten. He puffs out his small chest, adopting a rather serious expression for a six-year-old. "I write good. I'm gonna be a writer when I grow up. And a doctor."

"He's the Doctor!" Sherlock says, pointing.

Dark eyes rove over the room and stop on the Doctor, still standing next to the police call box in the middle of the cluttered floor. The boy ducks down again, using Sherlock as temporary cover.

"Who is that?" he asks quietly, tugging gently at the younger boy's sleeve.

"That's the Doctor!" Sherlock grins and drags John off the bed with him and towards the TARDIS. "But he's not _really_ a doctor."

John stumbles behind Sherlock, stopping before the Time Lord who bends down to their level and offers the boy a warm smile.

"I'm not a doctor like you're going to be," he says, nodding. "But I do travel through time and space."

John's looks at the Doctor in wonder. "Really?"

Sherlock nods, grabbing for John's hand. "All of the time!"

The Doctor grins and snaps his fingers, watching as John's face glazes over in awe when the TARDIS door springs open, bathing the room with a soft orange glow.

"Would you like to come with us, John? Sherlock keeps complaining that he's bored."


End file.
